


Everyone deserves compassion

by Apuzzlingprince



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Drug Abuse, Fix-It of Sorts, Fluff, M/M, drug overdose
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-06
Updated: 2017-05-06
Packaged: 2018-10-28 15:52:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,926
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10834446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Apuzzlingprince/pseuds/Apuzzlingprince





	Everyone deserves compassion

Nothing happened when Edward took his pills. He wasn’t sure why; the pills had never failed to induce Oswald’s apparition before, and he’d only ever needed to take one to produce the desired effect. He had taken two, thus far, and nothing beyond a dizzying rush of energy had occurred.

It was really quite inconvenient considering he was attempting to give Oswald a respectful send-off at the docks by _terminating_ his reliance on the drugs. He just wanted – _needed_ – to see Oswald one more time, to give him a proper goodbye.  

His chest was feeling a touch tight as he flicked open his pill container. He had nothing on hand to wash the pill down with, so he had to swallow it dry, crunching it between his molars before letting it slide stickily down his throat.

Finally, _finally_ , Oswald presented himself. He was shimmering and translucent, the lines of the sea visible in his pale visage, but he was there. The strange, irrational desperation that had gripped him started to recede, and Edward smiled, sliding his pills back into their designated pocket.

Oswald didn’t smile back. The blue of his eyes was dimmed by the surrounding dull sky and grey waters and his lips seemed darker, enhanced by his translucent quality.

Edward gave his eyes a rub and shook his head to see if he could turn Oswald solid, but Oswald remained a tenuous figure despite his best efforts.  

“It’s because you’re dying,” said the hallucination, and Edward’s head shot up in shock.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Can’t you feel the pain in your chest? You’re dying.”

Edward could indeed feel a strong, stabbing pain beneath his sternum, extending toward his left-most rib cage, but surely one – no, two – wait… how many pills had he taken in the past hour? He wracked his mind for an answer and it was like trying to grab onto something while being swept downstream by a torrential river, hands grappling at rock and dead wood but not quite preventing him from being submerged.

He wiped his palms down his face. “It couldn’t have been more than three.”

“Three?” asked Oswald incredulously. “Are you _trying_ to kill yourself?”

‘Maybe’ rose to the surface of his mind before being hastily dismissed.

“It’s uncommon for people to die from the drug I’m taking,” he argued. “That’s why I chose it. I’m not an idiot.”

“So a _smart_ person would overdose on speed?”

“I’m fine.”

“What if you have a heart attack?”

Oswald’s comment further accelerated his heartbeat. He was starting to feel horribly light-headed. An obvious side-effect of the drug, but he was irate enough with Oswald to place considerable blame on him. “Stop talking. You’re making it worse.”

“Maybe you’ll have an aneurysm instead,” continued Oswald sardonically. “If you stay on the pier, we could end up with the same grave. Wouldn’t that be romantic?”

It became apparent when a wave of dizziness nearly sent him keeling over that he needed to seek medical help. He couldn’t go to a hospital, nor a clinic; he risked being incarcerated if he went to either of those, but there were plenty of illegitimate doctors around who were willing to extend a helping hand to those with enough cash, and courtesy of Oswald’s bank account, Edward had plenty of cash to expend.

The hallucination followed at his heels.

“Do you know what happens when you overdose?” Oswald asked.

The symptoms flittered through Edward’s mind – chest pain, breathing difficulties, agitation, paranoia, a high body temperature, followed a heart attack, stroke, or coma – and while he said none of these things out loud, they didn’t need to be uttered for Oswald to know what his answer would have been.

“Taking those pills while being aware of those symptoms seems awful _stupid_.”

Edward grimaced. Oswald had sounded faintly like his father, then.

“I was disorientated,” he murmured. He was still disorientated, in fact, and was finding it increasingly hard to put one foot in front of the other without stumbling. He sorely wished he’d had the forethought to bring money for a taxi. He certainly wouldn’t be able to drive his car in this condition.

“Maybe you wouldn’t be if you had slept more than two hours in three days.”

“There was work to do.”

“There wouldn’t be so much of it had you not _killed_ me.”

Just keep on moving. Keep on moving.

Hot, rancid bile crawled up his throat.

“Look at you, you’re practically keeling over.”

“I’m not,” he protested, fisting a hand in his shirt, over his heart. It was thrumming away at a humming birds pace. “I just… I just have to…”

“What?”

Edward shook his head and continued on. The urge to vomit was so intense that he didn’t think he’d be able to open his mouth again without dissolving into helpless retching.

His shaking legs carried him deeper into the city, in the vague direction of the slums… but he stopped long before he reached them, realizing he was significantly closer to another potential source of help.

Lucius Fox lived on the second floor of a moderately well-to-do apartment complex. Security was minimal and easy to evade. Even if Fox wasn’t home, he’d have a toilet bowl Edward could vomit into and water he could drink, and that was a far more appealing prospect than the increasing likelihood of him collapsing in a gutter before he could reach a medical professional.

He hadn’t noticed how much he was sweating until he entered the air-conditioned reception lounge. The cool air billowed over him and the sweat suddenly felt thick and oppressive, clinging to him like a second skin. Any effort he made to wipe himself down proved fruitless.

Fortunately, Fox’s room wasn’t far from the entrance.

“If he’s home, he won’t help you,” whispered Oswald, directly into his ear. He could almost feel the chill of his breath. “He’ll just send you back to Arkham. They’ll lock you away for good this time.”

Edward ignored him.

When he arrived at Fox’s door, he fished a lock pick out of his pocket (he always kept a few on hand in case of an emergency, and this most definitely qualified as an emergency). With it pinched between shaking fingers, he descended to his hunches before Fox’s door and got to work.

Generally breaking into something as poorly secured as an apartment would take no longer than a few minutes. In Edward’s current condition, with the distraction of Oswald incessantly whispering in his ear, he’d still made no progress well after five minutes of trying.

So maybe it was a fortunate thing that the door swung open before he could finish.

He looked up at Lucius Fox’s troubled face and then promptly turned his head, vomiting onto the floor. Fox gasped in disgust.

To Edward’s immense relief, Fox’s mere presence was enough to banish the apparition of Oswald.

“That better not be contagious,” murmured Fox as he heaved Edward up off the floor, pulling one of Edward’s arms around his broad shoulders. The way Fox was carrying him, with such ease, he must have weighed about as much as a wet paper towel.

His vision spun to the point of him being unable to distinguish any fine details of Fox’s apartment. He knew only that they stepped through an immaculate lounge room and hallway before entering a spacious bathroom. Edward dislodged himself from Fox when he saw the toilet bowl and crawled his way over to it, vomiting so hard and so violently that his body convulsed and tears sprung to his eyes.

He vomited, and vomited, and vomited; he couldn’t say how long he did it for, nor how many times. He was too exhausted to keep track of the minute details of how his body was wrecking itself.

At some point, Fox knelt down at his side, raising a hand between his shoulder blades and simply… holding it there. It was a comforting presence, even if Fox didn’t attempt to do anything with it.

It was such a relief when his stomach had finally emptied itself that Edward almost sobbed, wiping away unshed tears from his eyes. The drugs had provided him with a buzzing energy, but he seemed to have expended it all on purging said drugs from his body.

A cool hand cupped itself around the nape of his neck to keep him still while a damp cloth patted at his soiled lips. He eyed Fox as the man worked, too tired to protest this infantile treatment. When Fox then pressed the cool edge of a glass to his lips, he accepted the contents, swirling it around his mouth once before spitting it into the toilet bowl.

“Got anything left to sick up?” asked Lucius.

“No,” he said weakly.

Strong arms slid beneath his quivering body and heaved him up. The sweltering heat racing beneath his skin and the pain encompassing the entirety of his torso was too great, too distracting, for him to feel any shame at being treated like an invalid. He groaned softly and curled closer to Fox, almost dragging Fox down with him when the man gently lowered him onto a soft chenille couch.

“What happened?” asked Lucius.

It took Edward a moment to find enough focus to answer. “Too many pills.”

“Pills? What kind?”

“Methamphetamines.”

“I need to call an ambulance,” Fox murmured, and Edward reached for him, visibly panicked.

“No,” he begged, curling his shaking fingers into Fox’s trouser leg. He looked pathetic, he knew it, and he didn’t care. As colossal an ego as he had, he was willing to do anything to avoid going back to Arkham. “Please don’t, _please_ , they’ll take me back to Arkham if you do!”

“Ed, you’re _sick_ , and I don’t know the first thing about treating an overdose.”

“Please,” he pleaded, looking imploringly up at Fox, brown eyes wide with panic. “Please- _please_ , I can’t go back there! Hugo Strange – he locked me in a room with a monster for _hours_!”

Fox’s gaze jumped to the cell phone on his coffee table, and then away again.

“If you get any worse, I’ll _have_ to call.” He gently removed Edward’s hand from his thigh, giving it a squeeze before he released it. “But until then, I won’t. I just don’t fancy having you expire on my couch.”

Edward nodded gratefully.

One of Fox’s cool palms soothed his hair back away from his face. Edward wasn’t sure if it was intentional or not, or if Fox was just checking his temperature, but he appreciated the gesture all the same.

“I’m going to grab you a bowl,” said Fox. “Try not to be sick on my floor in the meantime.”

Fox’s departure left him alone with the cell phone. His paranoia at once attempted to convince him to hide it, conceal it like a child concealing a misdeed, but the remnants of the man he had once been chastised him for the mere though. That would be incredibly rude, it told him. So he didn’t.

Fox returned with more than just a bowl for him to vomit into. He carried with him a thick quilt, a soft pillow, and a bottle of water, and the aforementioned bowl was balanced on the very top of the pile. He deposited these items on the coffee table and separated them.

The pillow was first to be positioned, slid gingerly beneath his head, then Fox draped the quilt over his legs and pressed the water into a slack hand. The bowl was set on the floor beside him.

Edward struggled to uncap the bottle; eventually Fox ended up doing that for him too.

For a man he barely knew, this was an undue amount of consideration for his well-being. A mere two day prior he had held a gun to Fox’s head. It baffled him that Fox would care this much.

“Why are you doing this for me?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

Fox seated himself on the edge of his coffee table.

“You came to me for help, so I’m helping you.”

“I threatened you. Threatened Harvey.”

“You weren’t and still aren’t in a healthy state of mind.”

Edward rolled onto his side and tucked his arms against his chest, peering blearily up at Lucius. His pulse was still jumping wildly in his throat, making it difficult to focus his thoughts.

“I don’t deserve this.”

“Everyone deserves compassion, Ed.”

Edward wasn’t sure he believed that.

“How long can I stay here?” he asked quietly.

“As long as you need to recover.”

“That could be a long time.”

“That’s fine. I’ll take time of work.”

Edward took a tentative sip of his water. His stomach groaned in protest. “What will you do when I get better?” 

Fox’s answer came without hesitation. “Nothing you don’t want me to do. We’ll just talk.”

“Okay.” Edward closed his eyes. He was still in pain, still nauseous, but it was very gradually subsiding. “Okay.”

* * *

He awoke slowly, blearily, shaking his head and rubbing crust out of his eyes. His mouth was bone dry, sticky when he tried to swallow, and everything hurt. His head, his neck, his arms, his torso, his legs – _everything_. He felt as though someone had put sandpaper between all his joints.

With some difficulty, he pulled himself up against the couch arm rest and fumbled for his water bottle. Drinking the contents proved difficult with how awful he felt, and more water ended up reached his shirt than his mouth.

Fox must have removed his jacket, because it was conspicuously absent. He wiggled his toes and found his shoes and socks were gone, too.

Setting the water aside, he slid his legs over the side of the couch with the expectation it would be night and Fox would be absent, but he was wrong on both counts.

It was early morning and Fox was hunched over on the other side of the couch, fast asleep.

It didn’t look to be a very comfortable position, certainly not good for his back. 

After everything Lucius had done for him, Edward thought the least he could do was prevent him from waking up with an ache.

He gave Lucius’ arm a gentle nudge. “Foxy. _Foxy_.”

Lucius’ eyes opened at once. He orientated himself impeccably fast, his gaze alert when he turned to Edward. “You’re still calling me that?”

“You don’t like it?”

“It certainly… has its charm.”

Edward smiled winningly at him. “Foxy.”

“Yes, Edward?”

“I feel like I just ran a marathon on hot coals. With weights on my arms, and if you’ll forgive the blasphemy, Jesus’ cross draped over my shoulders.”

Fox’s mouth twitched into something resembling a smile. “There’s aspirin in the kitchen.”

* * *

After three days of being Lucius’ house guest, Edward was surprised to find the man hadn’t yet informed the authorities of his location. Anyone else in his position would have.

When he had told Edward he wouldn’t do anything he wouldn’t like, merely talk – something they hadn’t gotten around to yet – Edward honestly hadn’t believed him. But he was starting to. Just a smidge, but enough that he felt relaxed enough around Lucius to enjoy the man’s engaging personality and vast esoteric knowledge.

His body was still in the process of recovering from its ordeal, so even if he had wanted to leave, it would likely end with him in the ER, and he found he didn’t want to go anywhere anyway.

He actually _liked_ Lucius. He was more than just a sparring partner; he was kind, compassionate, funny and talented, and the more time they spent together, the more things Edward found to appreciate. 

By the end of the first week, he was starting to list Lucius as a ‘friend’ in his mind.

Considering his track record with friendships, it was ridiculous and borderline self-destructive how fast he came to like and trust people. He’d been pitied, driven to murder, and betrayed, and still he hooked his fingers into anyone who demonstrated even the smallest amount of regard for his well-being.

But Lucius was so genuinely nice and caring that it was hard, if not impossible, to prevent a rapport from developing. Even Oswald hadn’t understood him and his interests like Fox did, and he started to wonder if Oswald had ever understood him at all, given what Oswald had done to him. If he had, wouldn’t he have considered how Isabella’s death would affect him? How his betrayal would bring ruination upon their friendship?

On the other hand, he was having a hard time understanding _himself_ right now.

“Ed…”

Edward looked up from the chess board they were hunched over.

“We ought to talk.”

“Mhm.” He shrugged and fiddled with one of Lucius’ defeated chess pieces. “If you’re going to ask me what I intend to do when you kick me out, I don’t know.”

“I’m not going to kick you out.”

“But I can’t stay here forever,” he mumbled, sounding very much like he would have if permitted.

“Well, no; I only have so many sick days I can expend on keeping you company.” Lucius moved a pawn. In response, Edward moved a knight. “I want to know if you’re willing to receive help.”

“What kind?” he asked cautiously. “From where?”

“Not from Arkham,” Lucius reassure him.

“From where, then?”

“I’ve been doing some research into mental health facilities. There’s a voluntary one not far from the GCPD.”

“They’ll put me in Arkham regardless of what I want,” he muttered.

“I’ll vouch for you,” said Lucius, leaning closer. “You need help, Ed. You need to get out of the lifestyle Penguin has dragged you into. It’s _destroying_ you – you came here half-dead, and I don’t know how long it’ll be until that happens _again_.”

“Do you care about me?” The question fell from his lips against his violation. Edward hunched his shoulders and lowered his head, feeling stupid and flustered.

“I wouldn’t have let you stay here if I didn’t,” said Lucius, his voice gentle.

“Oswald said he cared about me, and he…”

“What did he do?”

Edward hesitated. “He went through the motions of caring, but I’m still not sure he ever did genuinely care about me, or if he just put me on a pedestal.”

“Ed,” said Lucius gently, sliding the chessboard to the other side of the table. “What _exactly_ did Penguin do?”

“He ruined everything. My life was _perfect_. I had a girlfriend, a best friend, a good job…” This would mark the first time he had ever spoken of the betrayal, and it was _hard_. He wished he could sound more indifferent, like the circumstances of Oswald’s death weren’t a heavy, gnawing thing inside of him, but he couldn’t.

“Go at your own pace,” said Lucius patiently. “We’re in no rush.”

He nodded. The gentleness of Lucius’ voice compelled him to continue. “Everything was perfect, and then Oswald murdered my girlfriend. He made me see her body in the morgue. He lied to me, repeatedly. He manipulated me. He let me pursue a man who had attempt to murder me to cover his own tracks. And he did it all because he was in love with me and wanted to be with me.”

Lucius’ eyebrows ascended toward his hairline, but he otherwise didn’t respond.

“I was furious, I just- I came down on him twice as hard and it felt _good_ to show him my happiness should have been worth _more_ to him, but he…” Edward pressed his fingers to his eyes, breathing shallowly, trying to will himself not to cry. “But he was willing to die for me despite my revenge, and it made killing him for her hard. A life for a life seemed so _reasonable_ before that, but I struggled to do it, and I miss him now. I miss how everything was before he killed Isabella. I miss both of them so much.” He hunched even lower to further obscure his face. “He told me killing him would kill a part of myself, and he was right.”

Lucius reached across the table, sliding warm fingers over his wrist. The skin tingled inexplicably where Lucius touched him. “Maybe you did, but that doesn’t mean it can’t be recovered.”

“I don’t know…”

“The fact you’re talking to me at all shows you’re not beyond help. At least _try_ , Ed. Please.”

Edward dragged his knuckles across his face, wiping away any hints of moisture. “Could I stay here a little longer? Another week, maybe? I… I’ll get help, I will, but I need some more time to…”

“You can stay, but I have to ask something of you.”

Lucius’ solemn tone prompted him to raise his head just a touch. “What?”

“Would you like tacos for dinner? I haven’t much else in my pantry.”

Edward laughed wetly.

* * *

The input provided by Lucius proved vital to an agreeable outcome. With his support, the court made its decision swiftly: for his crimes, Edward was sentenced to six years of house arrest with obligatory probation appointments and rehabilitation treatment, as well as a nine o’clock curfew.

It wasn’t going to be easy to live this new life; he still had Butch, Tabitha and Barbara to worry about, and it wasn’t likely he would ever be able to gain decent employment with _murder_ on his permanent record.

But he wasn’t going to be facing it alone.

While parked in the rehabilitation center car park, Lucius handed him a thermos of Butter Pecan Swirl coffee – his favourite kind – and a few dollars to buy lunch with. He had his own money, of course, but he accepted the coins regardless, flattered by Lucius’ generosity.

“You’ll be alright,” said Lucius, referring to the concern lining his face. “They’ll just have you talk a little and perhaps sing some songs. There might even be crayons. I’ll be great.”

“Crayons. _Super_.” Edward took a sip of his coffee. “I’ll try to resist the urge to choke myself with them to escape the _excitement_.”

Lucius’ mouth curved into a wry smile. Edward always enjoyed it when he smiled; it wasn’t a common expression he wore. Much of the time he looked pensive, which was to be expected from a man of his remarkable intelligence. 

“You be good. I don’t want to be receiving any angry letters.”

“I feel like a kid on parent-teacher conference day.” Edward slid the thermos under his arm, preparing to leave the car. “Thank you, by the way. I don’t know what I’d do without a chauffeur.”

“Take the bus?”

“ _Far_ too many bodies for my liking. I’d sooner voluntarily jump into the sewer.”

Lucius laughed softly. “Ed, before you go, come over here a minute. There’s something on your face.”

“What is it?” he asked, pawing at a cheek with his fingers.

“Just come over here. I’ll get it.”

Edward obligingly leaned forward- straight into Lucius’ mouth, who had leaned forward at the same time. His lips parted in shock and he felt a soft tongue swipe over them and warm hands encase his face, drawing him closer. His eyes fluttered shut of their own accord.

When Lucius finally parted their bodies, Edward’s face burned bright enough to boil water.

“You’d better get going,” said Lucius, gesturing to the rehabilitation center. “You’ll be late if you wait any longer.”

“R-right,” he stammered, recovering enough control over his body to slide out and into the car park.

As he watched Lucius’ car drive away, his frazzled, ineloquent thoughts delivered to him a single line: _that smooth bastard_.


End file.
